


heavy from the hurt

by acidquill



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Buck needs a hug, Episode Related, Episode: s03e03 The Searchers, Gen, Mental Health Issues, brief mention of blood and self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-31 01:51:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21040565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acidquill/pseuds/acidquill
Summary: Buck, in-between.





	heavy from the hurt

**Author's Note:**

> my attempt at Buck!fic. skipped tonite's ep so i could post this without canon interference, so we'll see how it goes. set in the nebulous time between the scene @ the field hospital & when Eddie knocks on Buck's door. title gratefully borrowed from anson seabra.

It’s been one day. Two?

He’s not sure.

Maddie calls and calls and calls. Buck misses more than he answers. It’s not always intentional. His phone vibrated off the counter and he knows it’s somewhere in his apartment. Under the table. Curled under the edge of the rug. He thinks he stepped on it before. This morning? Yesterday? Out of sight, out of mind anyway.

He doesn’t feel like talking. Doesn’t feel like listening much either. His body keeps swaying, pulling like he’s still wading through -

No.

His apartment’s dry. Not even the faucets drip. Buck remembers someone checking because he could _hear_, he could. Was it Chim, Bobby? He needs to say thank you. Needs to apologise for being so fucked up. They shouldn’t have to keep looking out for him. Worrying. He takes up too much of everyone’s time lately. He never meant to.

He didn’t. He didn’t mean to lose -

No.

His leg throbs, sharper than it should. He thinks he shook the right pills into his hand earlier; there’s no shaky click-clack of them from the bottle in his pocket. Maybe it’s time for his next dose. There’s an alarm set on his phone, but if it’s gone off, Buck missed it. Doesn’t matter.

He presses his curled fists hard against his temples. His head seems too heavy to keep upright, but the space between his ears is hollow. There’s nothing but a huge, empty, gray space that swallows him up for hours. He comes back to Maddie crying one time, to Chim’s fingers warm against the pulse in his neck another. Maddie cried then too; Buck hates making his sister unhappy.

Disappearing is better than sleeping, though.

He hasn’t touched his bed since his first night back. His sheets are in the corner, sweat-stiff and twisted. He’s gonna have to bleach them to get the blood out. Maybe he’ll just go without them, the way they catch at his legs in the dark make him think about -

No.

The couch has bloodstains now too. Can you bleach a couch? Hen would probably know. Or Ed- but he can’t ask. Not anymore. One more thing he’s lost. Two more. Buck’s starting to lose count.

He swallows, throat burning. It’s okay, Buck will figure it out; he can flip the cushions over. He can buy a new couch. It’s fine. It will be _fine_ once he stops clawing at his face when…when. And he can live with losing. He can live with. He’ll have to _learn_.

Buck just needs to keep his eyes open.

The dining table is a solid weight under his hands. He sits in the same chair, faces the same window. Can’t name a single thing he sees. He’s drifting already and he _can’t_. Buck finds the energy to knock his bad leg into the underside of the table. Nearly throws up from the bone deep flare of pain. 

Maddie’s coming by after shift; he’s pretty sure she is. He remembers her voice, the warm press of her hand against his cheek. Buck swears he’ll never ask for anything again if she’ll help him fix what he ruined. He waits.

She can find him if he stays right here.


End file.
